Single Edge Studios Blog

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

The ceiling in my bedroom is completely uninteresting. I
know this because I spent an inordinate amount of time last night staring at
it. It’s off-white and slightly textured. Some sort of entertainment value
would have been nice, such as a light show or a spider. Two spiders would have
been great, especially if they did a little dance or something. Like ‘Puttin’
on the Ritz.’ The larger spider would be Peter Boyle and the smaller one Gene
Wilder. It would be amazing.

And I’m rambling, as I’m very tired and all the
still-functioning brain cells are focused on keeping me awake, continent, and
breathing. Clever is way down the list of necessary functions, so yeah.

I did, at one point, lapse into a dream where people were
being murdered and I figured out that the entire thing was related to a comic
book series, where if you could just decipher the codes in the issues, it would
tell you who was next. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the whole series, so cue a
frantic journey across town to comic book shops to buy the back issues and thus
prevent a series of murders.

Unfortunately, I woke up before I could solve the case.
Sorry, dream people, insomnia is a harsh mistress.

Now, if there were three spiders, they could do the whole
‘Sedagive’ scene.

At around seven or eight-ish, I could hear my neighbors
start to get up and prepare for work. Due to the thin walls, I got to listen in
on one side of a phone conversation that my upstairs neighbor was having.
Apparently, Ray called in sick and my neighbor needed to get there earlier. She
was not happy. I do not blame her.

At some point, I had another dream where I had to deliver
packages, but there were zombies all over the place, so would have to roar up
in my car, sprint to the door, fight off the zombies while the homeowner signed
for the package, and then fight my way back to the car. Waiting for the
signatures seemed excessive, but those were the rules.

Anyway, I hope to get a decent night’s sleep tonight so that
I can actually, y’know, think tomorrow.

Tuesday, March 6, 2018

I have bad handwriting. I choose to blame the ubiquity of
word-processors instead of any particular laziness or the fact that I had to
stab a zombie with my good pen and now whenever I use it, it will only write ‘brains.’

I do take notes on a pad of paper I keep by my computer, but
those are generally things like ‘+2 sword at 345,-88, 148’ or ‘spam? Immune to
fire?.’ Pretty much I write down things that seem important and then reread it
days later and wonder if the government is pumping weird chemicals into my
apartment again.

Now, this is the point of the blog where I’m assuming you,
the reader, will heave a sigh and wonder why I’m telling you this particular
bit of information.

It’s because I found another dagger. Under my bed.

It’s a well-made dagger. About a foot of blackened blade on
a leather-wrapped handle. Batwing-esque hilt. A big, eye-ball looking gem in
the middle of the hilt that seems like its watching you. Some sort of rune on
the pommel that screams when you touch it. A pretty typical ‘evil’ dagger,
probably made by some guy with ‘the Cursed’ or ‘the Hateful’ or ‘He Who Shops
at Hot Topic’ at the end of his name.

The troubling part is that there’s a tag attached to it that
reads, as best as I can make out. ‘Cors?d Dagr of S???s??xyr. DESTR?Y ASAP IN FORG
OF D?-smudge-?C.’

I have no idea.

Obviously, it was important enough at the time to label it,
but not quite important enough to, y’know, write legibly. So, now I have yet
another cursed dagger of some importance that I need to destroy in some
specific way or in some specific place and I have no idea where or how or why.

Yes, I have several. In my hall closet, which also contains a cursed
sword made out of vampire bones, a bunch of wands I keep in an empty Quaker Oats
tube, one gauntlet that keeps trying to strangle me when I open the door to get
the vacuum, and this bulbous yet pointy thing that pulses and seems to promise
untold power if I just let it stick itself to my face.

All of which, I should point out, have some sort of tag or
similar that I can’t read, because my handwriting sucks and/or it’s got blood
all over it.

So, if this dagger sounds familiar and you know what I
should do with it, let me know. Otherwise, it’s going in the closet.

Tuesday, February 27, 2018

This is a continuation of the blog post, A Curse Upon Our Toes
(click the link to read it). Otherwise, this post might not make any sense.
Well, in all honesty, I can’t guarantee it’ll make sense anyway, as it’s about
a sorcerer with a magic accordion who cursed someone with generational
toe-funk. So, yeah . . .

I needed to find the descendent of the sorcerer and defeat
him if I ever wanted to cure my toenail and thus be able to wear sandals in
public without causing a panic. I had no idea where to start.

First, I tried the internet, where searching for ‘sorcerer
with accordion’ didn’t get me any hints. Yes, I did this. I then decided to try
a music store, assuming that the sorcerer would need to get his accordion oiled
occasionally.

NOTE: I have no knowledge of accordions. I don’t know if you
oil them, tune them, set them on fire, or put them in a warmth bath with a
glass of wine while playing smooth jazz. In all honesty, I keep spelling it ‘accordian’
and only fix it because Word has trained me to react when the little red line
appears under things.

I strode into the music store, potato in hand, and made a
bee-line to the kempt young man at the counter.

He glanced up. “Hi, how can I help you?”

“I’m looking for the descendent of a sorcerer in possession
of a magic accordion. Do you know anything?”

“Huh?”

I leaned against the counter, placing my potato between us. “Long
story short, a sorcerer put a curse on my family and I have to break it. His
descendent has his accordion and I need to wrest it from him. What do you know?”

The young man seemed confused. He kept looking from me to my
potato and back again.

“Ignore the potato.” His name-tag said ‘Jeff.’ I wasn’t sure
if that was the name of his name-tag or his name, so I let it slide.

“I don’t really-“

I leaned in and slid the potato a few inches towards him. “Don’t
play games, kid, I wasn’t born yesterday. Though if I was, we wouldn’t be
having this conversation.”

“Sir, I think you’re going to need-“

“What’s your name?”

He pointed at his name tag. “Jeff.” It made sense.

“Okay, Jeff. You’re playing hard ball. I can respect that.”
I stuck my hand in my pocket. “I gotta fistful of Abraham Lincolns here. You
tell me what you know, they’re yours. What do you say?”

“Abraham Lincolns?”

“Yeah. Sixteenth President of the US. About seven-feet tall,
if you count the hat.”

Jeff glanced around. “So, if I tell you what I know, you’ll
give them to me?”

“That’s the deal.” I spun the potato around.

Leaning over the counter, Jeff dropped his voice. “Well, you
see . . . “

“Yeah?”

Jeff pointed at the sign behind him. “This is Guitar Land.
We don’t deal in accordions.”

With a sigh, I pulled my hand out of my pocket. “I guess you
did, Jeff. I guess you did.” I dropped seven pennies into his palm. Jeff stared
at the pennies. I stared at Jeff. I don’t know what the potato stared at.